


Be My Happy

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction
Genre: Bottom Harry, Brain Cancer, Depression, Eating Disorders, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Sub Harry, Top Louis, everything goes to shit but then gets better dont worry, louis plays piano, terminal illness, therapist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:10:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Styles is sick, and Louis Tomlinson is his therapist. Intended romance and healing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment/kudos! (:

Louis Tomlinson walked into the doors of an all too familiar hospital building he has come to despise. He knew it was his job, but seeing dozens of depressed patients that had death waiting around the corner for them sometimes deemed too much to handle. It was the first time he entered the building for about a week. His last patient, Emily Harrison, only ten years old, had died of a severe cardiovascular disease. Getting a little closer to this patient than usual for she reminded Louis of his little sisters, he had stopped by her room every Tuesday and Thursday for six months when she was diagnosed with minute-childhood depression. He helped her cope with the fact that she would most likely have to say goodbye to her parents, her little brother, and her grandparents very soon. Louis made the process easier, and brightened up her remaining days with his unique humor. It’s safe to say that when she died, Louis had been more torn up than usual. His boss gave him a week to recover.  
As he made his way up to the front desk, he thought about Emily, and the last words he ever heard her say:  
“Be my happy, Louis.”  
I will be your happy, he thought, and he put a smile on his face and greeted Niall the security guard with a fake aura of enthusiasm.  
“Morning Mr. Horan!”  
Niall chuckled. “How many times do I have to tell you, Louis? Call me Niall.”  
“Mate,” Louis said to him, “I’ll call you Niall when you stop making me nervous. I mean, I feel like you’re about to arrest me!”  
“Stop being a twat. Who are you seeing today?”  
“A kid named Harry Styles,” Louis said as he took out his file, “says he’s eighteen, brain tumor, half a year to live, severe depression and history of an eating disorder.” He looks up at Niall. “Boss said he would give me an easy one after Emily… said this guy was already too far gone.”  
Niall looked skeptical. “Louis, if anyone could save him, it’d be you.”  
He gave Niall a “stop being such an idiot look” and started down the corridor towards the brain injuries/terminal illness’s section of the hospital.  
“I’m serious, mate!” he heard Niall yell to his back.  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
“101…102….103….” Louis muttered as he walked down the hallway. “Ah. Room 104.”  
He straightened the collar to his shirt and patted his hair down in the front. Re-strapping his business satchel to his shoulder, he knocked on the door a quick three times. After waiting a good few minutes, he didn’t get an answer. He knocked again.  
“Jesus fuck,” he heard a quiet voice mutter inside the room. Louis had to practically strain his ears to hear it. After some movement and rustling of sheets, the voice said only a little louder, “Come in.”  
Louis walked in the room only to be met by darkness. The lights were off, and the curtains seemed to be closed.  
“Ummm..” he muttered, not sure what this meant.  
“Oh, ehrm, sorry. I had a migraine last night… you can turn the lights on.”  
After a few moments of patting and searching the wall for a light-switch, his hand landed on a circle. “So, uhm, is this circle thing it, or—“  
“Oh, yea, sorry. Just turn it a little to the right so it dims.”  
Louis did as he was told, and the room suddenly filled with a dim light. The room was meant to be a double, but Harry’s bed was pushed to the center of it. It was relatively empty, surprising Louis a bit. Usually young patients had balloons, presents, flowers—but this room was bare except for a bed. He looked at Harry only to be met with lifeless green eyes and a mop of curly hair. Looking closer, he noticed purple bags under those eyes, and chapped lips following downwards.  
“I hope you don’t mind, but I would like to keep the blinds closed..” The boy said, playing with the strings of his blanket. “My headaches have been getting worse, so.”  
Louis cleared his throat as he heard Harry’s voice properly for the first time (low and scratchy and holy shit Louis he’s eighteen) and pulled up a chair next to his bed.  
“No, that’s perfectly okay. I’m Louis.”  
Harry looked at Louis, studying him. “Are you another therapist? Because I didn’t ask for another one, after the last one gave up.”  
Louis tried to stumble out an answer, losing his usual confident façade to one of nervousness. This boy seemed so lost… like he was already dead.  
“You know, ehrm, you don’t, like, have to call me a therapist. I could be a friend, or—“  
“A mentor, a companion, a father figure…” Harry finished for him. “Although, I don’t think it’ll be the last one. You don’t look as old as my last therapist.”  
“Well, I think I’ll take that as a compliment,” Louis chuckled, only receiving a forced grin from Harry. “I’m twenty-one, actually.”  
The younger boy raised his eyebrows. “You’re twenty-one and at a hospital spending time with depressed people?” He closed his eyes. “That must suck.”  
Louis laughed. “Well, enough about me. Let’s talk about you, Harry.”  
Harry opened his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m Harry. I’m eighteen. I had a very good childhood. I used to work at a bakery and baked a lot. I was going to school to become a lawyer, but I started getting headaches. Turns out I had a tumor growing in my brain since I was five. Tried an experimental treatment, lost all my hair, but it didn’t work. I was given a year and a half to live. I’ve stopped eating, stopped talking to my friends and my family because I don’t see the point anymore.. I’m going to die anyway… but they’ve forced me to stay at the hospital so I don’t kill myself before nature takes its course.”  
Louis was rendered speechless only a moment before he muttered out, “Well. That seemed a bit rehearsed.”  
“Louis, right?” Harry asked. Louis nodded. “I’ve had a total of eight therapists before you. I know how this goes. And I know you’ll have already left before I’m dead.” He went back to picking his blanket.  
Louis sighed. Niall was wrong, and his boss was right. This boy was very, very far gone, and Louis wasn’t sure if he had enough experience or stamina to give him hope before he passed away. He’d have to make a game plan when he got home tonight, he thought. Study Harry Styles inside and out. Find a way to give him hope. Find a way to be his happy.  
“Before I go, give me one positive thing that has happened since you’ve been here. There’s got to be one.” Louis almost begged.  
Harry thought a moment before answering.  
“I got my curls back.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment/kudos! (:
> 
> I know the chapters seem really short but I'm the kind of writer who gets bursts of creativity and instead of waiting to add to it I rush and post it?? Im sorry if thats annoying but I'll try to update fast to make up for it(:

Harry Styles sat in the dark. It wasn’t unusual for him, or uncomfortable in any way. He felt at home, or at peace. Harry didn’t believe in God, or in heaven or angels or any of that bullshit. If there was a God, why would he do this to him? Harry believed that once you died, you would be in the dark. Permanently. And honestly… that’s how he likes it. Brightness brings headaches and disappointed facial expressions and sadness and light that will never make his milky skin tan again. Darkness doesn’t have any of that.  
He remembers when he first got here, and how bright it had seemed. Hopeful expressions, experimental drug trials, a chance of surviving; the comforting darkness always waiting around the corner, but not quite making an appearance yet. It was all very touchy-feely. Fortunately, now he felt nothing.  
Harry told his friends to stop visiting first. His daily headaches were turning into daily migraines and every time a mate came it was with a sympathetic expression. Harry didn’t want sympathy; so he cut the ties. He only calls Zayn on his very goods days—he’s an exception.  
Next came his family, or lack there of. Only his mom and sister visited him, grandparents dead and a dad who left long before he was born. Once the news came out that he would be dead in about a year, every visit brought tears. Harry didn’t want to feel sadness—he wanted to feel nothing. He agreed to stay at the hospital, though, to let his mom feel at least some comfort that he would be eating.  
He had started eating again soon after that, (he swears), but the hospital food was shit and he never got what he ordered to fuck it might as well waste away ahead of schedule. The nurses knew it too, every time they had to take his weight and check his blood pressure, but they didn’t say anything. Harry figured they had given up on him, or thought he was going to die soon anyway, so why try?  
And then the therapists started pouring in, eight to be exact. The first one lasted the longest, only to leave after Harry threw a vase at him when he turned the lights on without asking. The next few were old men who, Harry thought, shouldn’t be treating him like he was 5. They left within the first week. He remembers when a young girl (around 21, he thinks) came in to try to help, only to flirt with him shamelessly instead. (Harry will never forget the look on her face when he asked her if she had a dick, for that was the only way to get into his pants). Harry tries to forget about them, and after the last one left, asked not to be bothered anymore.  
On a particularly bad day, though, when he was just getting over a wave of nausea from the fucking migraine he had all night—Harry swears the nurses are just giving him sugar pills to make him more miserable—Louis knocked on the door.  
Louis. He couldn’t think about him without getting butterflies in his stomach. Beautiful blue eyes with little crinkles when he smiled, an ass that filled his jeans out perfectly. He was one of the only therapists he had had that made him nervous. (and kind of hard, he admits, but only because he doesn’t have the energy to wank anymore). Once Louis walked in, Harry knew he was different than the others And that scared him. But he gave him his spiel and tried to control the little flutter of hope heating his heart—for he knew he had to stick to darkness.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“I don’t know Zayn,” Harry said the umpteenth time to his best mate. It was Thursday, Morphine day. The day he allowed himself to call his best friend.  
“Come on mate, she misses you,” Zayn said pleadingly. “And we both know you don’t have a lot of fucking time left.” Harry heard the slight sound of him inhaling deeply, and then exhaling.  
“I see you picked up smoking again? Watch out, I heard it causes cancer.”  
“Ha-ha. Very funny, you shit.” Zayn sighed. “At least let me see you so I can let your mom know how you’re doing. You eating?”  
“Of course.”  
“Don’t lie to me.”  
“I’m not fucking lying to you, Zayn,” Harry snapped. Why does anyone even care, he thinks to himself. Only half a year left.  
“I’ll believe you when I see you. Either that or I never talk to you again. I’m sick of this shit, Harry.” He heard him take a shuddery breath. “Please. I just need to see you.”  
An ultimatum. A small crack of light in the darkness. It made Harry feel very vulnerable.  
“Visit tomorrow at noon,” Harry said hesitantly. “My therapist is coming half past then, so you can’t stay long.”  
“Thank you… but a new one? I thought you said no more.”  
Harry sighed. (sighing was more common than breathing for him now-a-days). “I know. But he got signed to me anyway and I think… I think I’ll work him out. See how long he lasts.” He picked at his blanket.  
“Oh,” Zayn said surprised. Harry never really welcomed a new therapist before.  
“Let’s just forget it.” Harry rushed. He definitely wasn’t going to tell him about how his heart fluttered at the thought of seeing him again, or about how his eyes reminded him of the hope he used to have, or about the dream he had about his ass the night before… nope. Harry didn’t plan on ever telling Zayn about that. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And he hung up without hearing a goodbye from Zayn.  
He tossed his cell to the floor with a groan. Zayn was going to see him tomorrow after almost a year. What was he thinking? He was skin and bones. His hair was greasy, usually just being left un-kept and unruly. Whenever he actually got up to look at himself in a mirror, he had permanent bags under his eyes and the last time he check, weighed 99 pounds. (His goal is to weigh 85 before he dies—but he keeps that to himself). But that was something he was going to have to deal with.  
He got up out of bed and hobbled over to his small, narrow closet built into the wall of his room. Harry kept the few things he had brought from home in here, opting to almost shield them from the darkness in the outside world. He wanted to keep his happy memories away and safe. Holding onto his I.V. bag and morphing plug for support as it’s wheels squeaked from barely being used, he opened up the door and pulled out a jumper, two t-shirts, and a baggy pair of sweat pants.  
If he wanted tomorrow to work, he had to hide. And hopefully the darkness-- and extra layers-- would help him.


End file.
